BEXLEY BRIAR
They are strange and unholy, the two of them - Bexley regards the stranger with an even and suspicious gaze, noting with considerable impression the stark contrast of her eyes, the sharp rise of her cheekbones, the wolfish intensity with which she dares to meet the Champion’s stare. With the pressure of the world mounting, something calls for a halt. They stop at once. They become pillars. Bex’s legs lock in the sand, and her hair finally settles into still waves. Around each body the air coalesces into something electric, crackling with impossible tension, with impure opportunities: deep in her stomach something hums and buzzes, a low-velocity takeoff, and she shifts slightly on her feet, unsettled, intrigued.
To know where I am… So Bexley was right, her initial distrust of the stranger something to be counted on, the experience stored for later - that her intuition can be trusted. Her eyes narrow unhappily. The tone of the stranger’s voice is obnoxious, whiny, even, and the disgust with which she’s responded makes Bexley’s teeth itch, the hair on her neck stand up. She’s unused to being disliked, unaccustomed to being disrespect, and the obvious derision coming off this bitch in waves has already set Bex’s nerves on fire: her narrow shoulders set into an angry stance, her tail lashes behind her, and with a simpering, violent bare of all her teeth, she snaps, Good fucking luck getting that far with such a huge stick up your ass.
Snorting derisively, Bexley turns away, ears flickering to touch the back of her skull. You’re in Solterra, she continues, voice flat with disgust, And this fucking desert goes on forever.
She grins then, a wild, violent thing, and waits.
@rhiannon
